Smithfield was stepping along, throwing out his feet and resting on the
ball of his foot with the walk that Mrs. Falkener had so much admired.
"Well, sir," he said, "the trouble has been between Mr. Tucker and
Brindlebury."
Crane groaned.
"I don't defend the boy, sir. I fear he forgot his place."
"Look here, Smithfield," said Crane, "candidly, now, what is the matter
with all of you? You know you really are a very queer lot."
Thus appealed to, Smithfield considered.
"Well, sir," he said, "I think the trouble--as much as any one thing is
the trouble--is that we're young, and servants oughtn't to be young.
They should be strong, healthy, hard working, but not young; for youth
means impulses, hopes of improvement, love of enjoyment, all qualities
servants must not have." The man spoke entirely without bitterness, and
Crane turning to him said suddenly:
"Smithfield, what do you think about class distinctions?"
For the first time, Smithfield smiled.
"I think, sir," he said, "that if they were done away with, I should
lose my job."
"Well, by heaven, if I were you, then," cried Crane, with unusual
feeling, "I'd get a job that wasn't dependent on a lie, for if I believe
anything it is that all these dissimilarities between rich and poor, and
men and women, and black and white, are pretty trivial as compared with
their similarities. It's my opinion we are all very much alike,
Smithfield," and Crane, as he spoke, was astonished at the passion for
democracy that stirred within him.
"That, sir," replied Smithfield, "if you forgive my saying it, is the
attitude toward democracy of some one who has always been at the top.
There must be distinctions, mustn't there, sir, and you would probably
say that the ideal distinction was along the line of merit--that every
one should have the place in the world that he deserves. But, dear me,
sir, that would be very cruel. So many of us would then be face to face
with our own inferiority. Now, as things are, I can think that it's only
outside conditions that are keeping me down, and that I should make as
good or even better a master, begging your pardon, than you, sir. But
under a true democracy, if I were still in an inferior position, I
should have to admit I belonged there, which I don't admit at all now,
not at all."
"But how about my not admitting that I'm a master?" said Crane.
"In one sense, perhaps you are not, sir," answered Smithfield. "For,
after all, some training is necessary to be a servant, particularly a
butler, but for the exercise of the functions of the higher classes, no
training at all seems to be required. Curious, isn't it, sir? Utterly
unskilled labor is found only among the very rich and the very poor."
The conversation had brought them to the house, without the case of
Brindlebury having been further discussed. Suddenly realizing this,
Crane stopped at the foot of the steps.
"Now, what is it that's happened?" he asked.
Smithfield showed some embarrassment.
"I'm afraid, sir," he said, "that some rather hot words passed. In
fact--I do so much regret it, sir, but I fear Brindlebury actually
raised his hand against Mr. Tucker."
It was a triumph of self-control that not a muscle of Burton's face
quivered at this intelligence.
"If that is true," he said, "the boy will have to go, of course."
"I had hoped you might wish to hear both sides, sir."
"No," answered Crane. "I might hear what Brindlebury had to say, or I
might understand without hearing, or I might know that I should have
done the same in his place, or, even, going a step farther, I might
think him right to have done it, but the fact remains that I can't keep
a servant who strikes a guest of mine. That's a class distinction,
Smithfield, but there it is."
Smithfield bowed.
"If I might suggest, sir, perhaps you do not understand rightly how Mr.
Tucker--"
"Nothing like that, Smithfield. Tell the boy to go, go this afternoon.
Pay him what's right and get him out." He ran up the steps, but turned
half-way and added with a smile: "And you know there really isn't
anything you could tell me about Mr. Tucker that I haven't known a
great deal longer than any of you have."
He went in. Tucker and Mrs. Falkener were sitting side by side in the
drawing-room, with that unmistakable air of people who expect, and have
a right to expect, that they should be given an opportunity to tell
their troubles. The only revenge that Crane permitted himself, if indeed
revenge can be used to describe so mild a punishment, was that he
continued to ignore their perfectly obvious grumpiness.
"Well," he said, "you look cozy. Hope you've had as good a day as we
have."
Tucker opened his mouth to say "We have not," but Crane was already in
full description of the run, undaunted by the fact that neither of his
listeners, if they were indeed listeners, could be induced to manifest
enough interest in his story to meet his eye.
"I'm glad some one has enjoyed the day," said Tucker, as Crane paused to
light a cigarette. He laid an unmistakable emphasis on the words "some
one."
Crane patted him on the shoulder.
"Thanks, Tuck," he said; "I believe that's true. I believe you are glad.
Yes, we had a good day--three foxes, and your daughter, Mrs. Falkener,
went like a bird. She's a wonderful horsewoman--not only looks well
herself, but makes the horse look well, too."
At this Mrs. Falkener's manner grew distinctly more cheerful, and she
asked:
"And, by the way, where is Cora?"
Tucker, annoyed at the desertion on the part of his ally, pressed his
hand over his eyes and sighed audibly, but no one noticed him.
"I took a wrong turn in search of a short cut and lost the rest of
them," said Crane. "But she'll be back directly. She's perfectly safe.
She was with Eliot, our neighbor, and a fellow named Lefferts, whom she
seemed to know."
"Lefferts!" cried Mrs. Falkener. "That man here! O Burton, how could you
leave my daughter in such company? O Solon, you remember I told you
about that man!"
Tucker nodded shortly. He wasn't going to take any interest in any
one's grievances until his own had been disposed of.
"What's the matter with Lefferts?" said Crane. "He's staying with Eliot,
and they asked us all over to lunch to-morrow. Shan't we go?"
"No, nowhere that that young man is," cried Mrs. Falkener, who seemed to
be a good deal excited by the news. "He's an idler, a waster. Why,
Burton," she ended in a magnificent climax, "he's a poet!"
"So Cora told me."
"He affects to be devoted to Cora," her mother went on bitterly, "and
follows her about everywhere, without the slightest encouragement on her
part, I can assure you, but I have known him to take a most insolent
tone about her. The very first time I ever saw him, he was sitting
beside me at a party, and I said, as Cora came across the room with that
magnificent walk of hers, 'She moves like a full-rigged ship, doesn't
she?' He answered: 'Or rather, more like a submarine; you never know
where she'll pop up next. Yes, there's a sort of practical mystery about
Cora very suitable to modern warfare.' He called her Cora behind her
back, but not to her face, be sure. And very soon a poem of his appeared
in one of the magazines--'To My Love, Comparing Her to a Submarine.' I
thought it most insulting."
"And what did Cora think?" asked Crane.
"She hardly read the thing through. Cora is far too sensible to pay much
attention to poetry."
"But poets are different, I suppose," answered Crane. Personally, he was
pleased with the submarine simile.
"No, nor poets, either," said Mrs. Falkener tartly, and rising she
hurried away to see if by some fortunate chance her errant daughter had
returned without letting her know.
Left alone, Crane decided to give his friend his long-desired chance.
"Well, Tuck," he said, "you look in fine form. What have you been doing
since I went away?"
"I have not had a very agreeable day," said Tucker, in a voice so low
and deep that it was almost a growl.
"No? Not a return of your old dyspepsia, I hope," said Crane.
Tucker shook his head impatiently.
"At breakfast," he said, "I heard from Mrs. Falkener, who had heard from
her daughter, that you had observed the loss of the miniature that used
to lie on this table. Such things cannot be taken lightly, Burton. The
owners might put almost any price on an article of that kind--wretched
as it was, as a work of art--and you would be forced to pay. You see, it
could not be replaced. I thought it my duty, therefore, to send for each
of the servants and question them on the subject."
"You thought it your duty to send for Jane-Ellen, Tuck?"
Again Tucker frowned.
"I said I sent for all of the servants. Smithfield displayed, to my
mind, a most suspicious ignorance and indifference to the whole subject.
The housemaid was so hysterical and frightened that if I did not know a
great deal of such cases, I should suspect her--"
"And was the cook frightened?" said Crane, with a flicker of a smile.
"No," Tucker explained, "she did not appear to be frightened, but then,
I may tell you that I do not suspect the cook of complicity in the
theft."
"The deuce you don't!" said Crane. He found himself suddenly annoyed
without reason, that Tucker should have been interviewing and
questioning his servants during his absence; stirring up trouble, he
said to himself, and perhaps hurting the feelings of a perfectly good
cook. Suppose she had decided to leave as a result of these activities
of Solon's! He found he had not been listening to the account his friend
was giving of the conversation, until he heard him say:
"It seems Jane-Ellen had never been in this room before; she was very
much interested in everything. I saw her looking at that splendid
portrait of General Revelly, and she asked--in fact, she made me give
her quite a little account of his life--"
"A little lecture on the Civil War, eh?" said Crane.
His tone was not wholly friendly and Tucker did not find it so. He
colored.
"Really, Burton," he said, coldly, "in case of crime, or of theft, a
man's lawyer is usually supposed to know what it is best to do."
"Possibly, but I see no point in having dragged the cook into it."
"I see even less point in treating her on a different plane from any of
the other servants."
"It almost seems, Tuck, as if you enjoyed your constant interviews with
her."
"That is just, I regret to say, Burton, what I was thinking about you."
"It seems to me," said Crane, "that this discussion is not leading
anywhere, and might as well end."
"One moment," exclaimed the other, "my story is not finished. When it
came to be the turn of that boy Brindlebury, in whom I may as well tell
you I have no confidence whatever, his manner was so insolent, his
refusal to answer my questions so suspicious--Well, to make a long story
short, your boot-boy, Burton, attempted to knock me down, and I had, of
course, to put him out of the room. The situation is perfectly simple.
I must ask you either to dismiss him, or to order the motor to take me
to the train."
There was a short pause, during which Crane very deliberately lit a
cigarette. Then he said in a level tone:
"The boy is already dismissed. He is out of the house at this moment,
probably. As to the other alternative--the ordering the motor--I will,
of course, do that, too, if you insist."
But Tucker did not insist.
"On the contrary," he said, "you have done all I could desire--more,
indeed, for you have evidently decided against the boy before you even
heard my side of the case."
"One cannot always decide these cases with regard for eternal justice,"
said Crane.
Before Tucker could inquire just what was meant by this rather
disagreeable pronouncement, Smithfield appeared in the doorway to say
that Jane-Ellen would be glad if she might speak to Mr. Crane for a
moment.
This was what Crane had dreaded; she was going to leave. His anger
against Tucker flared up again, but he said, with apparent calmness,
that Jane-Ellen might come in. Tucker should see for himself the effect
of his meddling. Tucker suggested in a sort of half-hearted way that he
would go away, but his host told him, shortly, to remain.
Jane-Ellen entered. There was no doubt but that she was displeased with
the presence of a third party. She made a little bob of a curtsy and
started for the door.
"I'll come back when you're alone, sir."
"No," said Crane. "Anything you have to say can be said before Mr.
Tucker."
"Oh, of course, sir." But her tone lacked conviction. "I wanted to speak
about Brindlebury. He is very sorry for what happened, sir. I wish you
could see your way--"
"I can't," said Crane.
Jane-Ellen glanced at Tucker under her eye-lashes.
"I know, sir," she went on, "that there could be no excuse for the way
he has acted, but if any excuse was possible, it did seem--" She
hesitated.
"You wish to say," interrupted Burton who now felt he did not care what
he said to any one, "that Mr. Tucker was extremely provoking. I have no
doubt, but that has nothing to do with it."
"Really, Burton," observed his guest, "I don't think that that is the
way to speak of me, particularly," he added firmly, "to a servant."
"It's sometimes a good idea to speak the truth, even to servants,
Solon," returned Crane. "You are provoking, and no one knows it better
than I have known it during the past fifteen minutes. But your powers of
being provoking have nothing to do with the matter, except
theoretically. The boy has got to go. I want him to be out of the house
within an hour. That's all there is to the whole question, Jane-Ellen."
"But, oh, sir, if he is sorry--"
"I doubt very much if he is sorry."
"Oh, why, sir?"
"Because I feel sure that in his place I shouldn't be sorry in the
least, except for having failed--if he did fail."
"I know it's a great liberty, sir, but I do wish you could give him
another chance." Her look was extraordinarily appealing.
"What in the world is Brindlebury to you, Jane-Ellen?"
"Didn't Mr. Tucker tell you, sir? He's my brother."
"No, he didn't tell me. Did you know he was Jane-Ellen's brother,
Solon?"
"Brin told him, himself, sir." She was a little overeager.
Tucker frowned.
"Yes, I believe the boy did say something to that effect. I own I was
not much interested in the fact, and I can't say I think it has any
bearing on the present situation."
Crane was silent for an instant. Then he said:
"No, it hasn't. He's got to go," and then he added, quite clearly, and
looking at his cook very directly:
"But I am sorry, Jane-Ellen, not to be able to do anything that you ask
me to do."
She looked back at him for an instant, with a sort of imperishable
sweetness, and then went sadly out of the room.
Between Crane and his legal adviser no further words were exchanged.
Crane went and took out one of the motors and rushed at a high rate of
speed over the country, frightening one or two sedate black mules, the
only other travelers on the roads, and soothing his own irritation by
the rapidity of the motion.
More and more he regretted not having been able to grant the favor
Jane-Ellen had so engagingly asked, more and more he felt inclined to
believe that in Brindlebury's place he would have done the same thing,
more and more did he feel disposed to fasten upon Tucker all the
disagreeableness of the situation.
VII
HE did not get back until almost dinner time. The meal was not an
agreeable one, though Jane-Ellen's part of the performance was no less
perfectly achieved than usual. It was evident that there had been a
scene between the two ladies. Cora's eyes were distinctly red, and
though Mrs. Falkener's bore no such evidence, she looked more haggard
than was her wont. Tucker was still feeling somewhat imposed upon,
Smithfield's manner suggested a dignified rebuke, Crane felt no
inclination to lighten the general tone, and altogether the occasion was
dreary in the extreme.
As soon as they had had coffee, Cora sat down at the piano, and drawing
Burton to her by a request for more light, she whispered:
"Won't you take me out in the garden? I have something I must say to
you."
Crane acquiesced. It was a splendid, misty November night. The moonlight
was of that sea-green color which, so often represented on the stage, is
seldom seen in nature. The moon concealed the bareness of the
garden-beds, lent a suggestion of mystery to the thickets of what had
once been flowering shrubs, and made the columns of the piazza, which in
the daytime showed themselves most plainly to be but ill-painted wood,
appear almost like the marble portico of an Ionic temple.
The air was so still that from the stables, almost a quarter of a mile
away, they could hear the sound of one of the horses kicking in its
stall, and the tune that a groom was rather unskilfully deducing from a
concertina.
Crane whistled the air softly as he strolled along by his companion's
side, until she stopped and said with great intensity:
"I want to say something to you, Burton. I'm not happy. I'm horribly
distressed. I ought not to say what I'm going to say, at least the
general idea seems to be that girls shouldn't--but I have a feeling that
you're really my friend, a friend to whom I can speak frankly even about
things that concern me."
"You make no mistake there, Cora," he returned.
He was what is considered a brave man, with calm nerves and quick
judgment; physical danger had a certain stimulating effect upon him;
morally, too, he did not lack courage; though good-naturedly inclined to
have everything as pleasant as possible, he was not in the least afraid
to make himself disagreeable. But now, at the thought of what Miss
Falkener was going to say to him, he was frankly and unmistakably
terrified. Why, he asked himself? Young and timid girls could go through
such scenes and, it was said, actually enjoy them. Why should he be
unreasoningly terrified--terrified with the same instinctive desire to
run away that some people feel when they see snakes or spiders? Why
should he feel as if prison walls were closing about him?
"Two years ago, when you and I first began to see each other," Miss
Falkener went on, in a voice that she kept dropping lower and lower in
order to conceal its tremors, "I liked you at once, Burton. I liked you
very much. But, aside from that--you know, I'm not always very happy
with my mother, aside from liking you, I made up my mind in the most
cold-blooded, mercenary way, that the best thing I could do was to
marry you."
"Well, I call that a thoroughly kind thought," said Crane, smiling at
her, as a martyr might make a little joke about the lions.
"It wasn't kind," said Cora. "It was just selfish. I supposed I would be
able to make you happy, but really, I thought very little about you in
the matter. I was thinking only of myself. But I've been well repaid for
it--" She stopped, almost with a sob; and while she was silently
struggling for sufficient self-control to continue, Crane became aware
that the front door had opened, letting a sudden shaft of yellow light
fall upon them through the green moonshine, and that Tucker had come out
on the piazza. He was looking about; he was looking for them. Not a
sound did Burton make, but if concentration of thought has any unseen
power, he drew Tucker's gaze to them.
"Burton," said Tucker.
There was no answer.
"Burton!" he called again.
Miss Falkener raised her head.
"Some one called you," she said.
Then Crane's figure became less rigid, and he moved a step forward. He
was saved for the time, at least.
"Want me, Tuck?" he said.
Solon came down the steps carefully. He had reached an age when the eye
does not quickly adjust itself to changes of light.
"Yes," he said, "I do want to see you. I want to ask you one question.
Did you or did you not assure me the boy Brindlebury had left the
house?"
"I did so assure you," answered Crane, "and I had been so foolish as to
hope we had heard the last of him. Smithfield told me before dinner that
he left early in the afternoon."
"Smithfield lied to you. The boy is in bed in his own room at this
moment."
"How do you know?"
"Go and see for yourself."
Crane was just angry enough at every one to welcome any action. Only a
few seconds elapsed before he was in the servants' wing of the house.
All the doors were standing open, disclosing black darkness, except one
which was closed, and under this a bright streak was visible.
Crane flung himself upon this, thinking it would be locked, but
evidently Brindlebury had not thought any such precaution necessary. The
door at once yielded, and Crane entered.
Brindlebury, fully dressed, was lying flat on his back on the bed, with
his legs crossed in the air; a cigarette was in his mouth (one of
Burton's cigarettes), a reading-lamp was at his elbow, and he was
engaged in the perusal of a new novel which Crane had received the day
before, and had strangely missed ever since. On the floor near-by was a
tray, empty indeed, but bearing unmistakable signs of having been well
filled only recently.
Crane took the cigarette from Brindlebury's mouth, and the book from his
hand.
"Now," he said, "I'll give you five minutes to get your things together
and get out." There were no signs that packing had ever been
contemplated; all Brindlebury's belongings were undisturbed.
The boy looked at Crane. He would like to have answered, but he could
not think of anything to say, so he got up slowly and tried to smooth
his hair which was very much rumpled.
"I'm not positive I have such a thing as a bag," he observed at length,
but a little search revealed one in the closet. It was marked "B.
Revelly."
"A token of respect from your late employer, I suppose," said Crane.
The boy did not answer. He was rather sulkily putting on his clothes. He
was not a neat packer. A tooth-brush and some pipe tobacco, a wet sponge
and some clean shirts, boots and pajamas were indiscriminately mixed.
The five minutes, unmarked by any conversation, had almost elapsed when
light steps were heard in the hallway, and a voice exclaimed:
"Did you have a good dinner, honey?" and Jane-Ellen came spinning into
the room, all the demureness gone from her manner.
At the sight of her employer, she stopped, and her hand went up to her
mouth with a gesture expressive of the utmost horror. Brindlebury did
not stop packing. He was now filling in the corners with shaving soap
and socks.
His sister turned to Crane.
"Oh, sir," she wailed, "we've acted very wrongly."
"Jane-Ellen," replied Crane, "that really doesn't go. It was a good
manner, and you worked it well, but it is now, if you will forgive my
saying so, old stuff. I cannot look upon you as a foolishly fond sister,
trying to protect an erring brother. I think it far more likely that you
are the organizer of this efficient little plan to keep him here
unobserved, eating my food, reading my books, and smoking, if I am not
greatly mistaken, my cigarettes."
"Oh, Brin, do you take Mr. Crane's cigarettes?" said Jane-Ellen.
"Not unless I'm out of my own," said her brother.
"Without clearing his own honesty, he impugns my taste," said Crane.
It was plain that Jane-Ellen was going to make another effort to improve
the situation. She was thinking hard. At last she began:
[Illustration: At the sight of Crane, Jane-Ellen stopped with a gesture
of the utmost horror]
"I don't defend what we've done, sir, but if you would have let me see
you alone this afternoon, I was going to ask that Brindlebury might stay
just for this one night. Only I couldn't speak before Mr. Tucker, I'm so
afraid of him."
"There you go again," said Burton. "You're not telling the truth. You're
not in the least afraid of Tucker."
"Well, not as much as I am of you, sir."
"Jane-Ellen," said Crane, "I believe you are a very naughty girl." He
was surprised to find that every trace of ill temper had left him.
"I know what you mean, sir," said the cook, and this time her voice had
a certain commonplace tone. "And it's true. I haven't always been
perfectly honest with you, but a servant can't be candid and open, sir;
you know, yourself, it wouldn't do."
"I'd like to see it tried," returned Crane.
"Well, I'm honest now, sir," she went on, "in asking you to let Brin
stay. He'll apologize, I'm sure--"
"I will not," said the boy, still packing.
But his sister hardly noticed the interruption.
"He will do what I tell him when he comes to think it over, if you will
only relent. Don't you think you are just a little hard on him? He is my
brother, and it would make me so happy if you would let him stay."